Pandora

by Jilly Cooper

  Sotheby’s begged him to wait until their next big Old Masters sale in December. This would enable them to put the Raphael on the catalogue cover, produce a CD-Rom and a hardback for promotional purposes and send the picture on a triumphal tour of the art capitals of the world, so all the major players would be in town to view it.

  To which Zac had replied that if they didn’t do all these things in the eight weeks before 6 July, he would take Pandora straight round to Christie’s. The contract hammered out between Sotheby’s and Si Greenbridge’s sharp-suited lawyers was an absolute brute. Nor did the Old Master experts, who’d been working on catalogue footnotes eulogizing the Raphael until four o’clock in the morning, enjoy having their exquisite prose torn to shreds by Zac.

  The press, meanwhile, egged on by David, who intended to bid for the picture and who wanted to bring the price down, were spreading rumours that Pandora might only be a school painting and wasn’t anyway in the best condition.

  To refute any rumours, Chris Proudlove, Sotheby’s kind and genial press officer, suggested they call a press conference.

  ‘Get along the broadsheets, the big art magazines and of course television. Our experts Richard Charlton Jones and Lucian Simmons,’ he went on, ‘will then talk about the picture, its history and its excellent condition. And for you, Mr Ansteig’ – Chris Proudlove smiled at Zac – ‘it will be a unique opportunity to put the record straight. You had a lot of adverse publicity during the court case and since – quite unfairly,’ he added hastily. ‘Now’s your chance on an open stage to give your side of the story.’

  ‘I have absolutely no desire to justify anything,’ snarled Zac.

  ‘What a beast,’ sighed a secretary longingly as he stalked out of the building.

  Jupiter no longer minded about losing the Raphael. The Constable had sold extremely well. A valuation of the paintings in the Blue Tower had convinced him that flogging a few would sort out death duties and the gallery’s money problems. The General Trading Company, thrilled with Hanna’s flower paintings, had placed a big order. Searston Conservatives, having been assured Jupiter could control his wild family, were poised to adopt him as candidate and little Viridian was making eyes bluer than a Tory rosette at everyone.

  Jupiter was also preparing to move into Foxes Court. Empathizing with his father’s beloved Tennyson: ‘That man’s a true Conservative Who lops the mouldered branch away,’ he had coolly informed the family he’d like them out by Christmas. Anthea was already looking for a cottage in the area for herself and the twins with a paddock for Loofah.

  All the Belvedons found it horrible at Foxes Court without Raymond to welcome and fuss over them – none more so than Alizarin who finally came home at the end of June. There was no reason why he was still blind, but the American doctors felt they had done all they could.

  The moment he arrived, Alizarin asked Sophy to take him to Raymond’s grave, which was still covered in flowers. The limes were in bloom in the churchyard – the scent of his childhood. Seeing tears once more escaping from under his dark glasses, Sophy tried to comfort him, but as usual he shrugged her off.

  Wretched pride again. Alizarin couldn’t tell her of his despair that he’d never paint again, nor see the pale yellow lime blossom, nor, saddest of all, her sweet trusting face. She was only twenty-three. What use was a painter without eyes? If only Visitor were still alive to be hugged and confided in. If only he could have retreated to the Lodge to bawl his sightless eyes out, but Jupiter had decided against chucking out the retired bank manager and his wife. They brought in too good a rent.

  It was still impossibly hot. As soon as supper was over, Alizarin, lying that he was drooping with jetlag, retired to bed, leaving Sophy and Jonathan, who happened to be the only other member of the family at home, to watch television.

  Missing Raymond desperately, Jonathan was huddled in one of his father’s old jerseys and trying not to pump Sophy too much about Emerald. Grenville shuddered at their feet panting and dribbling, knowing a storm was near and there would be no Raymond to comfort him. Diggory sat in his basket under the television set convinced his master and Sophy were looking admiringly at him rather than watching the late-night Wimbledon round-up. John McEnroe, discussing the day’s matches, was being charming, intelligent, reasonable and not slagging off a single player.

  He used to be an obnoxious, mouthy brat like me, thought Jonathan. Perhaps I could improve?

  ‘What the hell are we going to do about Alizarin?’ he asked.

  ‘I think he’s about to crack,’ sighed Sophy. ‘He’s like one of those stone walls that fills up with rain – or tears – and suddenly collapses.’

  They were roused by terrifying screams.

  ‘Jesus!’ said Jonathan as Diggory leapt out of his basket, barking furiously.

  ‘It’s Alizarin.’ Sophy had gone very white. ‘He keeps having these nightmares.’

  Racing upstairs they found Alizarin sitting up in bed drenched in sweat, his huge frame racked by frenzied sobs, screaming for Galena and shouting, ‘He said I mustn’t tell anyone.’

  Gradually, Sophy calmed him. Jonathan paced up and down. Alizarin had been put in the spare room on whose walls Galena had painted the myth of Daphne turning into a laurel tree. Leering satyrs and wild beasts peered out from every tree – none of which Alizarin could see. Perhaps Galena’s ghost had returned to derange him.

  Jonathan took his brother’s hand.

  ‘What happened the afternoon Mum died?’ he asked gently.

  At first Alizarin would only mumble about some tramp fucking some woman who’d bled all over the pavement the night Visitor died.

  ‘She was crying out, I couldn’t help her.’ Alizarin was wildly agitated again. ‘I suddenly couldn’t see where she was.’

  ‘Go on.’ Sophy stroked his sodden hair.

  ‘I couldn’t help Mum either.’ Alizarin’s normally deep voice had become a little boy’s. ‘I wanted to but he locked me in. Mum was pouring blood like the woman in the street.’

  They all jumped as lightning lit up the room, followed by a deafening crack of thunder. Diggory shot into Jonathan’s arms; a panic-stricken Grenville disappeared under the bed. But there was no time to find him tranquillizers. Alizarin’s need was greater.

  Gradually, a few stumbling words at a time, the story spilt out. Alizarin had been alone in the house with Galena and baby Sienna.

  ‘Mum told me to watch television. She’d been drinking all day, yelling on the telephone. I heard a car crunch on the gravel . . . Someone ran up the stairs, Mum shouted at me to stay in my room. Then I heard more arguing . . . I can’t tell you any more.’

  Jonathan, who’d been cuddling Diggory and watching sheets of water falling out of the sky, swung round, frantic to know the truth.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, go on.’

  ‘It’ll help,’ urged Sophy, trying to still his shuddering. Despite her desperate concern, it was such heaven to hold him in her arms.

  ‘Mum’s screams grew so loud,’ he whispered, ‘I took my wooden sword and crept up the stairs to the Blue Tower. She was yelling at him for shagging Anthea’ – for a second Jonathan’s eyes met Sophy’s in amazement – ‘then I heard him say: “You never stop grumbling you’re not getting it any more, well now you’re fucking well going to.”

  ‘I pushed open the door . . . Oh Christ . . .’ Alizarin’s huge hands obscured his stricken, disintegrating face. Sophy clung on to him, terrified he was going to bolt.

  ‘It’s all right, Jonathan and I are with you.’

  ‘I thought he was killing her,’ said Alizarin, childishly again, ‘he was on top of her, fucking her, blood was gushing all over the floor. I rushed at him with my sword. “Get out, you nosy little bugger,” he bellowed. Mum screamed: “Go away,” over and over again. I ran back downstairs and along the landing; next thing I knew he’d locked me in my room, shouting: “Don’t you ever dare tell anyone what you’ve seen.” I tried to call for help . . .’ Alizarin w
ent on hopelessly. ‘Then I heard the front door bang, Mum screaming again, then this terrible crash. Chasing after him, she must have toppled over the banisters, falling down the stairwell onto the flagstones.’

  ‘Jesus,’ said Jonathan, ‘the bastard left her to bleed to death.’

  As if recognizing a greater need, Grenville emerged shivering from under the bed, jumped up and pressed his long length against Alizarin.

  ‘I climbed onto the roof,’ said Alizarin, exhausted but back in his normal voice. ‘It was dusk, no-one heard me calling. Poor little Sienna was bawling her head off, Shrimpy was whimpering. Finally the Old Rectory gardener came over and let me out. They thought Mum had locked me in. Everyone asked me questions. I couldn’t answer, the words wouldn’t come out, even when they arrested Dad.’

  Alizarin gazed at them like a skull, his face bone-white, his eyes huge black caverns.

  ‘It was the same with the tramp and the woman.’ He shook his head in despair. ‘I couldn’t save her either. Christ, that must have been the moment my sight went. I can’t tell you anything else.’

  As Jonathan opened his mouth to protest, Sophy raised a warning finger.

  ‘You’ve done brilliantly,’ she told Alizarin, ‘Jonathan’ll get you some more blankets and a large drink. There, darling, you’ve been such a brave little boy.’

  Reluctantly, Jonathan collected a double brandy and a couple of Anthea’s sleeping pills, but by the time he returned, Alizarin seemed curiously calm, his eyelids drooping. After that one deafening clap, the thunder had also retreated. Alizarin’s hand was smoothing Grenville’s striped head, reminding Jonathan agonizingly of the dying Raymond.

  ‘Who was the man?’ he demanded roughly. ‘Rupert, Casey, Etienne?’

  ‘No, no, no,’ protested Alizarin sleepily, ‘it was Willy of the Valley.’

  ‘Kerist.’ Jonathan collapsed on the end of the bed as Alizarin drifted off. ‘I never knew David was Mum’s lover. The dirty sod. Ugh!’ Then, becoming thoughtful: ‘I wonder when that started. He was miles younger than Mum. I always thought Dad was the one who was keen on him, that’s why he forgave the ghastly creep so much.’

  ‘Your dad forgave everyone,’ sighed Sophy.

  After sleeping most of the next day, Alizarin woke at dusk and, after a bath and a shave, insisted Sophy took him for a walk. The sun had just set. Fluffy vermilion aeroplane trails were drawing kisses all over a drained blue sky. Pigeons were crooning their young to sleep. Last night’s downpour had intensified the scent of the flowers. But Alizarin could only breathe in their sweetness, occasionally feeling the rough scratch of a yew hedge, hearing the babble of Raymond’s brook. Regret overwhelmed him that he had never opened up to his father, always pushing him away, and now it was too late.

  Leading him across the big lawn, Sophy turned right and then left.

  ‘Where are we?’ grumbled Alizarin.

  ‘Visitor’s grave. It’s next to Maud’s and Shrimpy’s,’ explained Sophy, reading the inscriptions. ‘He’s got a lovely headstone, feel.’ She placed Alizarin’s hand on it. ‘Oh, and such beautiful words.’

  ‘No-one consulted me,’ growled Alizarin. ‘What do they say?’

  ‘“Visitor Belvedon 1985–2000.”’ Sophy’s voice was suddenly choked with tears. ‘“Be comforted, little dog, thou too at the Resurrection shall have a little golden tail.”’

  Alizarin couldn’t speak, battling not to break down. Sophy in turn was terrified. Now they were back in Larkshire, she knew Alizarin, too honourable to chain her to his side any longer, was about to give her her marching orders.

  He had no idea he had pulled out of the drawer an inappropriately festive scarlet shirt, which she had given him and which now emphasized his desperate pallor. All the buttons were done up wrong. He had only managed to slot his belt through two loops. He wore a loafer on one foot and a black slip-on with the sole hanging off on the other. Glancing round at the ravishing garden, remembering the joyful pictures he had once painted of it, the family and the animals, Sophy thought how viciously cruel was his punishment. Beethoven at least could compose when he went deaf, Milton still wrote when he was blind, but Alizarin could see nothing, least of all where to put his paintbrush. Overwhelmed by the pathos of his situation, she could bear it no longer.

  ‘I love you,’ she yelled at the top of her voice. ‘I want you to know, I really love you.’

  ‘No need to shout,’ snapped Alizarin, ‘I’m blind, not deaf.’

  ‘I wanted Visitor to hear me say it,’ sobbed Sophy. ‘Now that he’s no longer alive to look after you, I want to instead – f-f-for always – please let me.’

  Reaching out trembling hands until he found her lovely plump shoulders, Alizarin drew her towards him. He could feel her soft clean hair tickling his clenched jaw. He couldn’t imprison her for the rest of her life. Then, looking up for divine guidance, he started violently, blinking then rubbing his eyes, then frantically gazing – it must be a dream. No, it wasn’t. Above the trees, slightly hazy, he could make out a tiny gold crescent moon. Hanging below a dark cloud, it looked exactly like Visitor’s tail, sticking out from underneath the drawing-room sofa.

  ‘“The little golden tail.” I can see! It’s come back!’ Alizarin’s voice was hoarse with excitement. ‘I can see the trees, the clouds, a star and the new moon exactly like Visitor’s tail. And, oh Sophy,’ his voice cracked as he pressed his lips against her forehead, ‘I swear I saw it wag. Visitor’s giving us his blessing, oh my darling, darling Sophy.’

  ‘My knees completely gave way when he kissed me,’ Sophy giggled to Jonathan afterwards. ‘Only Alizarin would have been strong enough to hold me up.’

  Jonathan was terribly pleased for them. He’d never seen two people so deliriously happy, but it made his own deprivation even harder to bear. Loving Emerald was like a cancer, a gnawing pain that never went away. Vienna and Paris had been hell, London and Limesbridge were even worse, all fogged with her ghost, which vanished as he reached out to hold her.

  The morning after Alizarin’s sight returned, after yet another sleepless night, Jonathan took a bottle of champagne from Raymond’s cellar, which he supposed now belonged to Jupiter, and went to see Lily, who was looking very diminished. She missed Raymond dreadfully and being the so-called head of the family made her feel frightfully old.

  She had, however, been vastly cheered by the barracking of Tony Blair by the Women’s Institute and was now inveighing against the banning of blood sports.

  ‘And what are they going to do about twenty thousand foxhounds? I can’t see Cherie and Tony keeping a couple at Number Ten. Oh, lovely!’ Lily accepted a glass of champagne. ‘I so like drinking at nine in the morning.’

  As he slumped down on the red rose-patterned sofa beside Douglas, the stuffed badger, Lily noticed Jonathan was trembling violently. He looked terrible, grey and shadowed, with new deep lines etched round his mouth. All his larkiness had gone.

  ‘You look like a painting by Francis Bacon.’

  ‘I’m sure. Can we talk about Mum?’

  ‘I thought you might want to.’

  ‘Who’s my father?’

  Lily gave a long sigh, and took a huge gulp of champagne.

  ‘I’m awfully afraid it may be that little shit, David Pulborough.’

  To Lily’s amazement, Jonathan gave a Tarzan howl and, gathering up Douglas, waltzed round the room knocking over a little table and the piano stool.

  ‘You don’t seem very upset,’ chided Lily.

  ‘If it’s true, I am the happiest man alive.’ Collapsing back onto the sofa, Jonathan told her about not being able to marry Emerald.

  ‘Yes, I can see that would pose problems,’ agreed Lily. ‘I suspected something was up. I couldn’t tell you before, Raymond loved you so much better than any of the others, it would have broken his heart. And he loved David too, which would have left his poor heart in smithereens.’

  As Jonathan reached for his glass of champagne, Brigadier, Lily’
s vast white Persian, eyed by an outraged Diggory, landed like a little elephant on Jonathan’s knee.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked, not daring to hope.

  ‘David arrived for the summer holidays,’ began Lily, ‘to coach your brothers. Your mother wasn’t sleeping with your father, they’d had some row, which gave her the excuse not to. Raymond was in London a lot. He knew Rupert, Etienne, Casey and Uncle Tom Cobbleigh were all giving her one, as you so euphemistically call it, but somehow he trusted David, because David seemed to prefer him, and Raymond felt singled out and special.

  ‘It would have destroyed him if he’d known your mother and David were at it all the time. They had some close shaves. But David has always had the ability to lurk undetected like a dishcloth in a washing machine.

  ‘After David married Rosemary, it was all downhill. He didn’t like Galena’s exhibition being a flop. Failure terrified him. Raymond got a silly crush on Anthea. David was after her too, thought he was the one that had got her pregnant. Claimed he paid for everything – in fact he borrowed vast sums from Rosemary and Galena. Then told Galena about Anthea’s baby to hurt her, taunting her that he was fed up with her demands. To hurt her even more, he told her Raymond was nuts about Anthea too.’

  ‘Jesus, what a bastard.’ Jonathan, weighed down by a thunderously purring Brigadier, reached out to fill their glasses.

  ‘This sent Galena roaring back to your father,’ went on Lily, ‘but the truce was fleeting. Galena was too hooked on David; she confided in me a lot. She was also tormented with doubts about her painting, experimenting with a less figurative approach. Marvellous stuff, but she was frantic for reassurance. David told her she’d gone soft.’

  Heaving herself to her feet, Lily weaved through the crowded room to a desk and, creaking to her knees, unlocked the bottom drawer, which was crammed with blue leather-bound diaries. Picking one out, flipping through the pages, she handed it to Jonathan.